It seemed useless to search the much longer arm of the kirkyard that ran southward behind the shops of Greyfriars Place and Forest Road.  If Bobby was in the enclosure at all he would not be far from Auld Jock’s grave.  Nearest the new-made mound were two very old and dark table-tombs.  The farther one lay horizontally, on its upright “through stanes,” some distance above the earth.  The supports of the other had fallen, and the table lay on their thickness within six inches of the ground.  Mr. Traill and the caretaker sat upon this slab, which testified to the piety and worth of one Mistress Jean Grant, who had died “lang syne.”

Encroached upon, as it was, by unlovely life, Greyfriars kirkyard was yet a place of solitude and peace.  The building had the dignity that only old age can give.  It had lost its tower by an explosion of gunpowder stored there in war time, and its walls and many of the ancient tombs bore the marks of fire and shot.  Within the last decade some of the Gothic openings had been filled with beautiful memorial windows.  Despite the horrors and absurdities and mutilation of much of the funeral sculpturing, the kirkyard had a sad distinction, such as became its fame as Scotland’s Westminster.  And, there was one heavenward outlook and heavenly view.  Over the tallest decaying tenement one could look up to the Castle of dreams on the crag, and drop the glance all the way down the pinnacled crest of High Street, to the dark and deserted Palace of Holyrood.  After nightfall the turreted heights wore a luminous crown, and the steep ridge up to it twinkled with myriad lights.  After a time the caretaker offered a well-considered opinion.

“The dog maun hae left the kirkyaird.  Thae terriers are aye barkin’.  It’d be maist michty noo, gin he’d be so lang i’ the kirkyaird, an’ no’ mak’ a blatterin’.”

As a man of superior knowledge Mr. Traill found pleasure in upsetting this theory.  “The Highland breed are no’ like ordinar’ terriers.  Noisy enough to deave one, by nature, give a bit Skye a reason and he’ll lie a’ the day under a whin bush on the brae, as canny as a fox.  You gave Bobby a reason for hiding here by turning him out.  And Auld Jock was a vera releegious man.  It would no’ be surprising if he taught Bobby to hold his tongue in a kirkyard.”

“Man, he did that vera thing.”  James Brown brought his fist down on his knee; for suddenly he identified Bobby as the snappy little ruffian that had chased the cat and bitten his shins, and Auld Jock as the scandalized shepherd who had rebuked the dog so bitterly.  He related the incident with gusto.

“The auld man cried oot on the misbehavin’ tyke to haud ’is gab.  Syne, ye ne’er saw the bit dog’s like for a bairn that’d haen a lickin’.  He’d ‘a’ gaen into a pit, gin there’d been ane, an’ pu’d it in ahind ’im.  I turned ’em baith oot, an’ told ’em no’ to come back.  Eh, man, it’s fearsome hoo ilka body comes to a kirkyaird, toes afore ’im, in a long box.”